Foxy nodded and tapped McKinney on the shoulder. “You’re with me, Professor.”
She followed Foxy toward the first van as Tin Man tossed him the keys. “Meet you back at the office. Take the long way home.”
“Wilco. Keep your eyes peeled.”
Foxy got in the van and McKinney uncertainly climbed in on the passenger side. The vehicle smelled brand-new. Foxy stowed the kora and his canvas satchel behind his seat and started the van. “Buckle up, Professor, this isn’t Africa.”
“Oh.” She buckled her seat belt.
Nearby, Tin Man opened the rear hangar doors on the far side of the space. He ducked his head out the opening, then gave a thumbs-up sign.
Foxy drove through the doors out into the deserted parking lot and toward the front entrance to the small airport.
McKinney had been under the impression that American airports had more security than this, but apparently private jet terminals did things differently. There was only an unmanned parking gate between them and the tarmac. It made her wonder about the security she endured in major airports.
Foxy drove them past an obvious highway entrance ramp marked Rt. 169/Downtown Kansas City, and instead drove through a narrow tunnel beneath the highway, to emerge on the other side amid gritty, deserted industrial streets.
McKinney had never been to Kansas City before. She scanned the dark horizon, searching for the inevitable downtown of lofty bank towers, but all she could see were security lights on warehouses and factories along with the occasional billboard-the generic Americanness she remembered. The van’s dashboard clock read 1:23 A.M. There was almost no traffic on the surface roads. The light industrial businesses, retail outlets, warehouses, and junkyards to either side were fenced and graffiti tagged, but it looked more orderly than any East African city.
Foxy repeatedly checked the rear- and side-view mirrors and glanced down every side road and alley they passed. His oddly calm paranoia was freaking her out. McKinney hadn’t slept a wink on either the flight from Africa or the flight from Germany. She felt half-crazed from exhaustion and stress, and Foxy’s behavior wasn’t helping. All she could think about was how her father would deal with the news of her disappearance. Let’s face it-her death. That’s what any sane person would think if someone disappeared in an explosion. And what about Adwele? How would he cope with the death of yet another significant adult in his life? First his father, and now McKinney…
She suddenly noticed Foxy staring at her. “You okay, Professor?”
“Somebody blew up my world.” She shrugged. “I’m doing great, Foxy. Just super.”
He nodded. “You want my advice?”
“No offense, but I really don’t.”
“Well, I’ll give it to you anyway. You just won the world’s worst lottery, that’s all. It’s nothing you did-so don’t focus on things beyond your control. Focus only on what you can control. That’s served me well over the years.”
McKinney considered his words. Actually it was pretty decent advice. She studied Foxy. “Thanks for saving my life. Back in Africa, I mean.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“You actually know how to play that kora?”
Foxy gave her a disbelieving look and laughed. “Of course I play it. I can play most instruments I put my mind to. I will say, though, these twenty-one-string instruments are tricky. You ever hear of Foday Musa Suso?”
“Maybe. African?”
“Originally Gambian; moved to Chicago decades ago. I’ve been trying some of his songs. I haven’t had much practice lately because my last kora got blown up. Along with some people I knew.”
McKinney felt the normalcy drain out of the conversation. She could suddenly see in his face the hardened mien of an elite soldier. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
In a few moments his seriousness passed, and he cast a grin her way. “This trip gave me the chance to grab a new one.”
“I wouldn’t have guessed a person in your line of work would be a musician.”
“With music you can speak to anyone.”
She leaned back in her seat. “Then music is a tool.”
He frowned briefly at her. “That’s not the right word. Look, what we do isn’t what you think. Human intelligence, what we call HUMINT, mostly involves making connections with people-not hurting them. You never know what opportunities come from making friends. And music is a great way to make friends in strange places. Take the Arab heavy metal scene, for example…”
“There’s an Arab heavy metal scene?”
He nodded and smiled wistfully. “Oh, hell, yes. That’s my music. The soul of disaffection. You won’t find any more sincerity than in heavy metal music in a repressive society. When we get a chance, I’ll play some for you.” He patted the T-shirt he was wearing. “This is a Saudi Arabian band named Eltoba, but I’m a big fan of Arsames-Iranian death metal-and, uh, Mordab is good too. Oh, there’s a kick-ass Bahraini Arabic death black metal band named Narjahanam. I saw them in an underground rave in Manama last year. Damned near got arrested. Their name means ‘the fire of hell,’ and, man, you can feel the youthful rage from these guys-not the sanitized, feigned shit coming from suburban kids trying to cash in. I mean fuck-it-all rage with a purpose.”
McKinney found herself grinning uneasily. “You should be the Middle East correspondent for Rolling Stone.”
“That would be problematic, but… oh, there’s Acrassicauda, Iraq’s sole heavy metal band-which is a start. But, hey, my personal favorite at the moment is an Afghan folk metal band-”
“Afghanistan has folk metal? You’re pulling my leg now.”
“Seriously, you can bridge any gap with music. It’s an Afghan folk metal band named Al Qaynah; a mind-blowing combination of traditional central Asian instruments-like the rubab, the tanbur-with a driving heavy metal foundation. Like all good art it challenges people. Takes them outside their comfort zone.”
“Should I even ask what brought you to these places?”
He shrugged. “I’ll tell you this much: I saw the Arab Spring coming. You could hear it in the younger generation’s music. You could see it in their eyes; in how they used technology to express themselves artistically, creatively. State Department? The CIA? NSA? For all their satellites and garden party spies, they somehow missed a huge wave of popular outrage with the status quo. No, to understand a people, you need to wade into their culture. It’s culture that tells their tale. And music is culture.”
McKinney realized there was a lot more going on with Foxy than had first appeared.
“For instance, most people don’t realize that British punk rock stemmed from a youthful backlash against survivors’ guilt from the Holocaust.”
“Oh, my God!” McKinney gave him an annoyed look. “Would you please just drive. Where are we going, anyway?”
“It isn’t far.”
“Why did we split up?”
Foxy nodded. “We always take separate vehicles and different routes back to base. The others will get in well after us.”
“Who could possibly notice us among all the other people in this city?”
“You might be surprised what anomalies can be detected against background noise. That’s why we have vans like this drive from the airport several times a day even if there’s no one to collect.” He took stock of her reaction. “I can tell nobody’s tried to kill you before, Professor. It tends to change one’s view on what constitutes reasonable precautions.”
“Well, it looks like I don’t have much choice in the matter.”
“I hope you don’t feel any more like a prisoner than the rest of us. We’re all stuck on this operation until it’s finished-that includes the other civilian experts. No holiday with the family for us either. I’d like to start thinking of you as another member of the team, if that’s okay.”
“Other civilian experts? So you’ve pressed other people into service?”
“None are in your unique situation, but you’ll meet the other folks; subject matter experts, most of them with top-secret clearances.”